‘Since you have the gun,’ Tasha said. ‘You didn’t do it. Not at all, scout. Let’s all go have a latte.’
‘If we get into a fight with Paul,’ Whit said, ‘this will end badly. For everyone. I assume you don’t want Paul or his business hurt.’
‘Useless to negotiate with me. I’m merely the girlfriend.’
‘Behind every great man,’ Whit said. ‘You’re smart and you can help me. And help yourself and Paul.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re trying to find the real thief,’ she said. The cold look that had come into Whit’s eyes scared her a little now. He meant business as much as Paul did. She suddenly envisioned him taking her with him, forcing a deal with Paul, and that would ruin everything. Like Paul would pay to get her back. He wouldn’t.
‘I already gave you the message he needs to hear,’ Whit said. ‘But I want information. Has the deal with Kiko Grace been called off?’
‘If Eve didn’t have a death sentence on her for stealing the money, she’d have one for telling you about the deal.’
‘Answer me, please.’
‘You don’t have to say please when you have the gun,’ she said. ‘As far as I know the deal’s still on.’
‘So what’s Paul going to tell Kiko if he can’t get the money back?’
‘Call off the deal, I suppose.’
‘And what? Ask Kiko not to sell to Paul’s rivals?’
‘Call Paul and ask him. What do I look like, Robert Duvall in The Godfather? I’m not his consigliere. I’m just a dancer.’
He held up the CD. Tell Paul to cancel the hit on Eve. Look hard at everyone else who has a motive to bring him down, because she didn’t do it. If he doesn’t want the Feds to get a detailed phone call from Eve about the Bellinis over the past thirty years, with these files, he needs to back off. Am I making myself crystal clear?’
‘Like Waterford, scout.’
Downstairs, the front door opened, the alarm giving off its little soft bleep of announcing entry.
23
Paul Bellini watched the slow, slow rise and fall of his father’s chest. His mother had converted a spare bedroom into a miniature hospital ward, and Paul wondered exactly how much money it was costing a day to keep the old guy going. His mother wouldn’t tell him, and once he’d shoved her about it, pissing mad, and Mary Pat Bellini said, ‘Every cent is for your father, not another word,’ and a deep welling shame overcame him. But last week, he’d sat by his father, calculating each breath in terms of dollars spent, and before he’d had two thoughts he’d wrapped the ventilator’s electric cord around his ankle, wondering how many shakes of the foot would pull the plug. Literally. How long his dad would breathe on his own, pr if he’d go with a merciful snap of the fingers. It would, after all, save money. A lot of money. And yeah, give his dad his dignity, too. That was a bonus.
He took his father’s hand, felt the faint warmth in his fingers. Kissed the fingers, tucked them back under the sheet.
‘I need you to wake up, Dad. Now.’
No answer.
‘I’m in trouble, Daddy. Wake up.’ Keeping his voice lower than the hum of the machines.
Of course nothing again.
‘Two guys got killed at the Alvarez place. And the cops are gonna be on the Alvarezes like white on rice, Dad.’ When he used a Southern expression his father had always affectionately tapped him on the jaw, telling him don’t talk like your mom but not meaning it bad.
He brought up his father’s hand, brushed it against his jaw in a little limp slap.
‘Do I pay the Alvarezes to keep quiet? Do I kill them? I don’t want to fuck up again, Dad.’
He could hear his father’s voice inside his head: Nothing to connect you to Alvarez. And one thing to connect you to Eve. Doyle, and he was a screwup who probably owed money to any number of lowlifes. Pray the cops focus on him. Pray the old lawsuit that we won against the cops slows them down enough if they start looking at you, Paulie.
Paul got up, went to the window. The window was taller than he was, facing onto the lush green yards and live oaks that led to the stone walls and gate at the front of the house. No reporters yet. What if Eve goes to the press? The thought was impossible to swallow; she’d incriminate herself. But if she got immunity, hell, she might end up giving interviews to People. Get a book deal. Appear on Oprah. Nausea wrenched his guts, and he put his forehead against the windowpane.
The paper said the guy with Doyle was a Corpus Christi PI named Harry Chyme. But why was he there? What did he know about Doyle or the Bellini operations? The loose end of Harry Chyme, entirely unexpected, worried Paul sick. He’d asked Tasha to check up on the name Harry Chyme using her and her friend’s computer knowledge, see what they could dig up.
He went back to his father’s bed, kissed his cheek, squeezed his hand, waiting for an answering tightening of fingers. Nothing.
It was time to go. Kiko had phoned ten minutes ago, asked for an early lunch meeting, just the two of them. Paul went to the garage, popped open the back of his Porsche. A long length of heavy-gauge chain lay there in a burlap bag, the same chain he’d used to kill Ricky Marino back in Detroit. He’d boiled it repeatedly, sure that would eliminate any usable trace DNA evidence. The chain was not an item he could throw away. It felt a part of him, seared into his hand and head with every lash he’d laid on Marino’s flesh.
He thought of using it on Eve. She’d scream, beg for mercy within five seconds. On Frank. The thieving, stupid little bastard, hit him in the throat with it, stop the singing forever. On Kiko, his perfect clothes shredded by the links, his perfect confidence torn away like flesh from bone.
The Porsche purred as Paul pulled out of the driveway, past the ornate iron gates his dad had bought in Italy. He headed west on Westheimer, threading through the molasses traffic of Uptown and the Galleria, past the glass citadel of the Transco Tower, one of the tallest buildings in the world outside of a downtown area. He passed high-rise hotels, Neiman Marcus, ultratrendy eateries. He headed west and the trendiness began to fade as surely as if he had crossed a border. Now there were Persian rug shops, cellular stores in strip malls, neon written in languages other than English. He drove past Club Topaz; the lot was almost empty, although a noontime crowd would start to materialize soon.
Seven blocks down on one corner was a small Greek deli; Paul parked the Porsche, went inside. Kiko Grace sat in a back corner. No Jose this time, which seemed odd. Paul glanced around the room, trying to make Kiko’s backup. Two older men sat at the counter, a couple of younger guys in another booth, not watching Paul walk by. He decided it was them and wondered exactly how many soldiers Kiko had brought to Houston. Or had already recruited here. Cash worked wonders. When you had it.
Kiko offered a hand as Paul slid into the quiet hush of the booth. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey. I asked the waitress to give us a few minutes,’ Kiko said. ‘Because I’m not sure I want to eat with you.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Paul asked, knowing the answer.
‘Do you or do you not have the green cleaned yet and ready at hand?’ Kiko said. Not sounding mad yet.
‘I’m greener than a golf course, man.’ Paul laughed.
‘Then why am I hearing you don’t have it?’
‘Who said so?’
‘I got a phone call saying so,’ Kiko said.
‘From who?’
‘An anonymous but concerned citizen.’
‘Don’t yank me,’ Paul said. ‘Was it a woman?’ That bitch Eve, she was trying to sour the deal for him. Or cut her own deal, buy the coke herself with his and his father’s money. It would be brilliant, a quick way to cut his throat and cut him out in one swift move.
‘The caller was a man. Told me to read in the Chronicle about a banker getting whacked down at the port. I’m gonna ask again, and you better not be fucking lying to me. Because if you don’t have the green,’ Kiko said, ‘we got to negotiate a new deal.’